


He Dreams He Is Awake

by oxymoronassoc



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not your dreams. You're not how well you can architect. You're not the clothes you style yourself in when you sleep. You're not the twenty story high rise your mind can make and populate within a snap of the fingers. You are an extractor. I see you dreamers as the strongest, smartest men and women who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation just dreaming, their thoughts going nowhere, their lives shallow, their pathetic secrets locked away, their ideas squandered. Modern life has them too busy to daydream and too exhausted for nightmares. We are the liberators of the mind. There are no more great battlefronts to be fought upon with tanks and guns. No liberations left for backward corners of the globe. Our Great War is a mental war...our Great War is in our minds. We've all been raised that our dreams are deep personal metaphors, ideas even we can barely remember let alone touch. But we know better. And we know how to use it. And we're coming for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Dreams He Is Awake

**The first rule of dreaming:  
don't tell yourself you know you're dreaming.**   
_A man walks into a bar._

The thing about knowing you're always living in a dream is, well, that you always know. No matter the beautiful, glossy, clean, classic facades you build around yourself you can never escape that pesky little fact. Despite your knowledge of the present--of your limited control--something outside yourself extends a hand, an offering, even as this nagging sensation at the back of your head knows that your real life is in a storage unit in Pasadena, tipped back in a lounge chair you bought at Target, sweating it out in the SoCal summer. 

You're sitting at a bar in your own mind, sipping a martini. Is that right? Is that the right drink? Does it matter? The vodka--no, gin--burns on your tongue but you enjoy its rich juniper taste, the notes of flowers blooming across your palate. A blonde sits down next to you at the bar, to your left, and you snake a glance at her. The hair is obviously fake, dyed, bleached--it doesn't suit her face, her skin tone, her features. You frown, internally, and she wiggles her firm little ass more comfortably onto the stool and orders a triple Jack and Coke. Dash of Coke, she specifics with a severe note to her voice. You frown again, but this time it's expressed externally too. A girl like that, she should be drinking a double vodka with diet tonic or a lemondrop or a mojito with vodka instead two Splenda, or something else incredibly low calorie with maximum booze for her buck. Your eyes skim down her this season Herve Lerege dress and there is no extra ounce of fat on her that betrays her drinking habit. 

She takes the glass from the bartender and, without even a straw, puts the glass to her too-perfect berry stained lips and takes a long slug without gagging. It's impressive, or it should be, this perfect blond creation throwing back such a disgusting and overpowering drink in one swallow, but all you feel is a sense of internal disquiet, like this tranquil, gentile, perfect hotel bar you've dreamt up has been suddenly turned on its side. Her perfect film noire blonde curls settle back against the curve of her face as she pauses and exhales in a soft, quick breath through her nose. 

The girl turns then and smiles at you. "Hello," she purrs in a low English accent. You smile at her; she isn't your type.

Her smile seems to kick up the corners of her mouth even further as she takes another drink. You keep watching her from the corner of your eye. 

"Nice place," she coos again, crossing and then uncrossing her long pale legs as she turns her hips slightly towards you, knees apart now. Your eyes glance down and then upwards, towards the bar glasses that hang above both your heads. It's always here; always this same bar. The colour of her hair doesn't suit her; it jars against your mind, too blonde where it should be a deep brunette. You've always had that weakness...or it is that weakness? Unprocessed hair would never do. Not for her. Not for you. Never in your perfectly coiffed world.

"Sorry, darling, I guess I'm just a bit of a slag," she says, but her voice is a low masculine purr now and you know what you're going to see when you can drag your eyes down from the ceiling. This isn't the first time. And it will never be the last. You're resigned to it and, yet, at the same time, a tiny pulse kicks up in your gut, the barest clenching of your abdomen like you're about to get punched.

"You're not real," you tell the man who's replaced the woman on the stool to your left. He's wearing a natty suit, just like you are, but where you're slim, dark hair combed perfectly back, this bloke is husky and his hair has been done with the barest nod to conventions. A day or more's worth of stubble dots his chin and cheeks, a soft dark gold. 

"Aren't I?" he says with a low, husky laugh. He signals the bartender who hasn't noticed his utter change in appearance, in gender. The bar around them continues to chatter and hum with normal conversation. Your subconscious hasn't noticed yet either. You mentally curse yourself. It never does. You fear even more that it never will. 

You smile too cheerfully, with too much teeth. "You aren't real," you say through that expensive upper middle class American dental work. "Go away."

"Oh darling." He elongates that last word on his stupid accent, making a child's attribution into an endearment fraught with undertones you either read too much or not enough into. His voice ends on a sigh that is a purr or a purr that is a sigh. "Make me," he says a second later, one corner of his mouth kicking up into a smirk, like you haven't just spent an hour silently analyzing his words syllable by syllable. "You're the only one who can."

"Eames," you warn the imposter in your mind.

"Arthur," he says and it almost sounds sympathetic but you know otherwise. He is but a shade, you tell yourself.

"Another round?" the Englishman asks, signaling for the bartender before you can reply.

 

**The second rule of dreaming:  
Don't tell yourself you know you're dreaming.**   
_All human beings are also dream beings. Dreaming ties all mankind together. - Jack Kerouac_

They're in his awful storage unit in LA. It isn't even in LA; he just pretends it is. It's in some godforsaken corner of the Valley. Take the 405 North to 210 South. Never mind the contradiction. Drive your car. Push the AC to max. Swerve past the soccer mom in her Honda mini-van, avoid the nervous man in the Audi. Take CA 134 towards Pasadena. Why didn't you just take the 101? Maybe there were men following you. Maybe not. It's hard to tell in rush hour traffic. After two plus hours of traffic you're tired, you forget, you wonder why you didn't stop at that Target in Sherman Oaks. That 7-11 at Hansen Lake Dam.

You stop your thoughts then. Squeeze your eyes shut. 

Never dream of specific places.

You get to your storage unit in the Valley or maybe it isn't the Valley. Depends on who you ask. It's hot. Hotter than hot. It was sweltering on the West Side. It's disgusting in the Valley. The words become abstracts, the places melt into each other. Sweat runs down your sides under your shirt under your waistcoat. You'd wear the jacket but that is beyond ridiculous in this heat. You pause, hand on the garage's door-pull. Your eyes scan the bare concrete walkways, your nose scents a drought.

And, yet.

"Luv, I haven't all day," he says in that slow drawl. He lights a cigarette--a cheap one, an English brand...Lambert & Butler?--you can feel the filter, cheap, soft, flexible between your fingers. Your nostrils flare a moment before he lights it with a convenience store blue Bic lighter. He takes several deep, meditative puffs. "So," he says finally. "Are you going to open the door?"

You stare at him, defiant in the two of three pieces of the suit you're starting to regret wearing, appearance bedamned. It's a shield--the clothing AND the label (the idea of the label) it affords you. You attempt a sneer, like your pinstripes will protect you from what you know (think [know]) lays inside. The sheet metal digs into your fingers as you tug, and the garage door rattles slowly upward, clogged with dust brought on the Santa Ana winds. You smirk and step inside the dark depths. It's muggier than expected. Somehow your mind left it as you felt it last--cool and dark. The soles of your shoes scuff against the concrete as you approach the scattered, mismatched furniture assembled in a rough circle. You frown. The seating is all empty; the briefcase sits unopened on the floor. You can't help a vague sense of disappointment. Somewhere deep in your gut, you had hoped to find yourself here. Dreaming. 

"Oh, darlin'," the man behind you sighs, having flicked his cigarette thoughtlessly into the dry, shallow gutter running along the center of the concrete alley. "This is tragic." 

"We can't all be conmen," you say, tone terse. 

"Can't we?" he asks, settling down in a plastic banana lounge. The blue and white vinyl straps give beneath him, sagging towards the floor. He crosses his ankles. Rests his hands on his stomach. Waits.

 

**The third rule of dreaming:  
If someone dies, or gets 'kicked', the dream is over.** __  
ver·ti·go  
–noun, plural  
a dizzying sensation of tilting within stable surroundings or of being in tilting or spinning surroundings. - Random House Dictionary 

You're in another anonymous upscale hotel bar. You don't remember how you got here. Did you drive? Did you get valet?

"You really think too hard, you know that?" he says, signaling for the next round of drinks. 

"You don't think enough," you tell your glass. 

Eames leans back slightly in his chair, scans the room. "They should have you designing hotels in Vegas," he says. 

"Thanks." You assume it's meant as a compliment. 

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" he asks two drinks later. You don't remember the time passing, but you can feel the warmth in your feet, your fingertips, along the tops of your cheekbones. If this was real life, you might be concerned by your lack of restraint. But this isn't and you know as soon as you stand up, the warm glow will disappear. Should disappear. 

"Tired of what?"

The other man makes a face. His features contort like putty, like a cartoon or a puppet. It's a rare face that can produce such wordless gestures. Even rarer one that can turn into the faces of others that populate the top of your mind. It's always his face you see, though, once a few minutes of dreaming have passed. 

"Y'know. This." He waves his glass around a bit sloppily. He's always so sloppy, his hair flopping out of place, his suit creased with wrinkles. It's part of his charm. "Everything is always the same with you. All clean lines. All harsh and clean and anonymous and...sterile. Must be boring, being you."

"Yeah, well, I've seen the shit you come up with," you say, tone a bit defensive. You're proud of these towering glass and steel structures with their trick stairways and hidden levels, all polished off with a veneer of luxury business. "We can't all be James Bond."

"Can't we?" he says crypitically and you feel a disquieting surge of your stomach, like you might throw up. Like you've had this dream before. You stare at your drinking companion. He smirks, throws back the last of his drink before turning his back to you. You moodily study the hair along the back of his neck, hair that's a fraction too long and just touches his shirt collar, your own drink silently melting the ice in the glass.

"Alright, darlin'?" he asks a girl down the bar. 

You frown harder. "Eames," you mutter. "That's my subconscious."

"Lighten up," he says dismissively, rising from his barstool to move a few seats down. His body is curved away from you now and all you can hear is the low rubble of his voice, words lost in the ambient noise. 

You curse your subconscious.

Your inner ear tingles almost like it itches. 

You sit up straighter.

The noise suddenly sucks backward like through a silent vacuum and your hips tip you back a fraction too far in your seat. It's early. You exhale the breath left in your lungs. A sigh of relief. You don't have to see it through. Your lashes are long, dark. They flutter shut against your skin. Pale olive. You let the stool continue to tip backwards. Your fingers let go of the glass. It starts towards the floor. You hit it first. Your eyelids clench. Your molars snap and grind against each other. You--

 

**The fourth rule of dreaming:  
Only two dreamers to a job.**   
_You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream. - Edgar Allen Poe_

You open one eye. It feels sticky with sleep. But you're sure you aren't waking up. Your lids snap back and flutter against the socket. Your face is pressed into the floor. There's drool.

You brace your palms. They feel sore, overworked. You push up, away. You sit up and blink slowly several times, squeezing your eyes shut on the close. 

You're in a room. In a house. Light filters through the drapes, a dreamy yellow-orange that tells you you're still in Los Angeles, as if the overly cheerful yellow paint on the plaster walls of every pre-1930s apartment ever didn't agree.

"Yellow," you mutter, wiping spit from your cheek. "Always yellow." 

Your hands travel down your torso. Smooth your pinstriped vest. You exhale. You push yourself to your feet. You glance down. You still wear dark Havana brown Derbys. 

There's a noise. You start and freeze almost in the same moment. Your fingers still grip the bottom of your waistcoat.

A woman moans. You let go the breath you were holding. You take a step towards the door. You assume it leads into the hall. A board creaks underfoot. 

You wince. 

You continue forward. 

There are four doors, including the one you exit. Only one is open, open halfway. You take a step. This time the floor doesn't betray you. You pause, look around. This is nothing you've dreamt before. This isn't your apartment. Nausea suddenly takes you it swamps your head you can't deal you go to your knees you press your hands to your temples to your mouth to your eyes you bow your head to the floor press your forehead hard against its cool depths--

You open your eyes. 

You feel fine.

Your forehead and knees are pressed to clinical, cool, low-pile hotel carpet. 

Your stomach is fine, no signs of nausea.

You stand up. Wipe your mouth on your right cuff, just in case.

You step towards the door and open it.

There's a living area. You're in a suite. In a posh hotel. You heave a sigh of relief.

A woman moans.

Your footsteps falter for only a moment before that part of you that drives you to do this job forces you forwards. No one would call you a coward. Or uncurious, for that matter.

The door is half-open. It's a two bedroom suite with living area. A huge flat screen TV dominates the wall across from the couch. For a moment, your mind wonders if the two bedrooms share a bath. Semantics.

You press the door to the other bedroom open further with the flat of your palm. The wood seems like it should be warm. It's neutral. Not even cold. Something in you is disappointed. Shouldn't this be like a novel? 

If it was a novel, your eyes would go straight for the bed. But this is you; your eyes go straight for the window. They stare out at the skyline, drinking in the beauty of the buildings at mid-afternoon, admiring the rise and fall of each construct, silhouetted by the sun. 

It takes another moan to break your concentration. For your eyes to jerk to the bed. 

It's the man, truly, who swears "Oh, fuck, yeah" that snares your attention.

You watch them. Silent. Clinical. The way his body moves against hers. Muscles in his back you could never have imagined bunch and shift, down along his spine. His ass. It's pale, but not in an offensive or obscene way. The girl makes a noise in her throat. She's inconsequential, almost faceless, dark hair. It spills across the pillow in mused waves. Or curls. You aren't sure. 

You lick your suddenly dry lips.

He thrusts.

She makes a strangled scream.

"Yeah, you like that, darlin'?" he asks, the hand not supporting him against the mattress disappearing between their bodies. His hips continue to shove against hers, slower this time, in a rhythm that seems deliberate. 

"Yes, yes," she says softly, tossing her slim, pointed chin from side to side. You can't see her face clearly, can't see if it's someone you know. Somehow, though, you know that point isn't what's important.

You lick your suddenly dry lips.

He thrusts.

 

**The fifth rule of dreaming:  
One dream at a time.**   
_If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time. - Marcel Proust_

You're on a ski slope. You cuss softly and your eyes swing to the sky, searching it through the golden orange glow of goggles. "Fucking Eames," you swear against your fleece muffler "Fuck. Fuck."

You dig your poles into the snow, push off. Your ski tips point towards the bottom of the slope. Your ankles and hips shift you from side to side. Snow scrapes hard against fiberglass and metal and you fling a volley of kick-up behind you up the hill. Your try to not think too hard about it, to let your body do its thing.

To let your mind.

You can't ski for a fucking damn in real life. Your sudden skill isn't comforting. It raises bile in your throat, and your eyes scan the slope for a sudden patch of the palm-sized chunks more experienced skiers call "snow cookies", created by the snow grooming machines as they trawl down the hill. 

Wind rips at your exposed cheeks. It hurts. Snow kicks up into your face. There are too many trees. It's so uncontrolled. So overwhelming. You lick your lips and taste a clinical chapstick. Blistex, maybe. You don't remember putting it on.

Your ankles are sore, like you've been doing this all day even though the sun tells you otherwise. You pop over a hill. You catch air. You hit the ground hard. Your left ski swerves independent of your other foot. The metal edge digs hard into the well-packed snow. You'd swear if there was enough time but instead all that indicates your failure is a sudden clenching in your stomach and a the swamping feeling of dread that courses through your body faster than a shot of adrenalin. 

The snow rushes up towards you and you'd brace yourself, but your wrists are looped through nylon loops attached to metal poles. 

You would close your eyes if there was time, but there isn't. You grimace. You hit the snow...

There is no sudden impact. No wrenching of your shoulders as they meet the hardpack. No spinning as your feet continue to tumble downhill, one ski still attached. No awful nylon pants with their partial elastic waistband trying to crawl down your hips and giving your exposed skin an abrasive burn. 

You inhale. Exhale. 

You're standing upright.

You're in an alley. Your right hand clenches on the grip of a handgun.

You start, stare down at it. Your left hand gropes your chest. Finds a three piece suit. Skinny silk tie. You breathe a sigh of relief. But your stomach won't unclench.

You walk forward. Your feet seem to loud. Your breath roars in your ears. Inhale. Exhale.

This is like some goddamn James Bond shit. Not the Sean Connery or Roger Moore or even Pierce Brosnan shit. No this is some fucking real shit. Some Jason Bourne offspring. Some goddamn Daniel Craig hand-to-hand, bruising, lacerating shit. 

The window next to you shatters. He's on you. Your fingers loosen. You roll. Your knees, your feet jerk upwards towards your chest. Your arms wrench and slam: right left right left. The weapon in your hands becomes something else as it slams into your assailant's face in practiced swings. 

He's got his hands around your throat somehow, though. 

The gun discharges a quick pop pop.

Your assailant slacks. Warm blood trickles down your cuffs, slicks your palms, your forearms. You sigh. Suck in a deep breath.

Relief. 

A smile. Satisfaction. Job well-done. 

Job complete.

Your fingers sag against the trigger. You breathe easy. Wait for the kick.

 

**The sixth rule of dreaming:  
No real memories, no exact recreations.** _  
Dreaming about being an actress, is more exciting then being one. - Marilyn Monroe_

You're at the W Hotel in West Los Angeles. In Westwood to be exact. On Hilgard. UCLA stands mere blocks from you; there's a church across the street, one or maybe two buildings up. You swallow the bile in the back of your throat down even as your mind wanders: why not the Beverley Hilton or even the Beverly Hills Hotel. God. Damn. Why here? Why so close. It's like he--

You shake your head. What was that sudden rush? You chalk it up to the AC blowing too cold against your nape in the long, silent hotel corridor. 

You reach the door, keycard in hand. You shove the plastic in. Withdraw. Wait. The LED flashes green and your right hand yanks downward against the handle, pushing inward. The metal is cold, hard against your palm.

You pause. Inhale. It's empty, sterile. You step into the room. Look around.

"You're so bloody careful," he says with a laugh, sitting in the only armchair across the room. He's got a gun turned on you. Silencer. 

You want your lips to fold into a displeased or an at least pliant line but it refuses. You've been here one too many times.

"You know, Eames, I have a Glock inside the back of my waistcoat. One shot and--" your mouth makes an ironic, sad twist. "boom boom." You'd have even done a finger gun if you weren't a little bit unsure of his mood. 

He smirks, gun still trained on you. "Oh," he says in that low voice. It's stupidly posh. You don't know why you know that fact about his accent. But you do. And you know, and he knows, that's why you don't need no bloody gun to take him down, even from this distance and disadvantaged position. 

"Oh, what, darling? Boom boom my baby shot me down?" He quirks an eyebrow, gesturing with the gun as he speaks.

Your cheekbones hurt from your smiling. It's involuntary on your part, but you hope your smirk is disconcerting nonetheless. Bang bang, not boom boom. You refrain from correcting his quotation. 

"No," he says quietly. "No. You haven't got the guts."

"Haven't I?" You say with a grimace, your molars grinding even as your wrists try not to betray you, wavering hardly...

He sits up slightly. Swings the gun up. Into range. His fingers flick around the trigger. Squeeze.

Your own fingers twitch. Your balance goes towards your toes, the balls of your feet. There's a sudden screaming in the hall behind you, of the previously unheard of, unthought of hotel patrons. You swallow the sudden bile in your throat at the thought of them coming. Helping. Attacking.

The bullet hits you hard, just to the left of square in the chest, right where you would have aimed.

You fall backward. In slow motion. Like the movies. Or real life? You hit the carpet with a thud. Eyes snap open. You give your killer one last glance. Look for his pleased smirk. You don't know why. He's good at killing, but better at what he really does. 

Deceit. 

Eames isn't smiling. He's frowning.

Disappointment.

\----

You're in your apartment, laying facedown on your Ikea mattress in your bedroom. It should have yellow walls but they're a pale, creamy white instead. It doesn't bother you. You barely notice. You wonder instead why you were so stupid to think an apartment would last you. Why you've never bought a condo. Why you don't own anything besides the designer clothes, carefully tailored, and stuffed in the closet meant for two. A corner of your mouth kicks up in a smile. Or a smirk. You know why. You never wanted something like this. These plaster walls, with their decades of paint and their shabby wood floors and cracked bathroom tiles in scintillating colours like pumpkin and sunset. You want something clean and modern and beautiful, not dingy pre 1930s. Somewhere, like New York, this shithole would be worth something with its "period details" but in Los Angeles, it's just shabby with its gutted kitchen, "renovated"--a generous term--in 1985 with a new gas range that has two settings: burning and off, and a motley collection of cabinets whose shelves are papered in peeling, lint-covered contact paper. The cavernous living room still lacks overhead lights.

You sit up suddenly. You remember the dream. Or was it? You hand gropes at your chest, under your tight tee-shirt. Your heart flutters under your hand but all you feel is smooth skin. You breathe a sigh of relief and slide out of bed. Move across the room to the half open door. Push it further open and go down the hall into the kitchen. It's dim and cool. The dishes sit in the drying rack. You open the fridge. Take out a can of soda. Push the connecting swinging door open with its original glass push-panel still intact and yet to be replaced with plastic. It's all too tactile. The hair on your arms stands up, but your dining room, with its Pasadena thrift market table, stands empty, the white painted chandelier above it off.

Your fingers clench around the thin aluminum blend can. The pop and fizz of the bubbles seem too loud. You step out into the hall, peer around the oversized archway into the living room. 

"Alright, Arthur?" he says from the couch. The television is on. You can hear it now. It's replaying a football--soccer--match. "You got the beer, mate?"

 

**The Seventh Rule of dreaming:  
Dreams will go on as long as they have to.**   
_He's dreaming with his eyes open, and those that dream with their eyes open are dangerous, for they do not know when their dreams come to an end. - Hugo Pratt_

You're tired. You've been dreaming a long time. You're not sure how you can tell, but it's like when you've been dreaming you've been running. After awhile, your brain knows it's been too far and you get exhausted. It's that, but multiplied by months. Years. Maybe decades. You're tired. So tired. But you continue on.

It started with a child hiding. In a clothing rack. Or maybe a closet. You can't remember now. It all seems misty and faded. Like it wasn't even your life or your memories at all.

Or maybe it started with a man. Yes, you were at a coffeeshop. CoffeeBean? Starbucks? Somewhere local? 

_You shake your head._

Yes it started with a latte. The foam was cool and the liquid burned against your tongue. Pleasantly. You had never met the man. It was your first meeting. You looked around the shop and spotted him right away. You acted casual. Paused at the counter to one side of the barista and stirred your drink once, twice, three times slowly with one of those thin wooden sticks before replacing the lid.

You sat down in front of him, absently pretended to take a drink of your too hot coffee, nodded.

"Good to meet you," he said. 

You pause. Wonder why you're in this mundane chain shop instead of in a corporate lobby somewhere drinking coffee half as cheap and twice as shitty. You shake your head. Shake it off. He's saying something. You're nodding. 

Yes, yes, okay. Yes. Of course I would be. Both your drinks grow cold.

This is how it begins.

 

**The eighth rule of dreaming:  
If you suspect you're dreaming,  
you may be the dream.**   
_I cannot sleep for dreaming; I cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though I'd find you coming through some door. - Arthur Miller_

You wake up feeling hungover. It's mostly in your cheekbones. You run a hand down your face, palm dragging across stubble. 

You stand up, tug your suit back into place. You think it should chafe, all things considered, but you wear it like a second skin.

It's telling. Like your voice. 

You go into the bathroom, turn on the lights over the vanity. You look as wrecked as you feel. You grimace, remove the suit, shower, shave. When you get out of the shower, you replace the three-piece with the tux that has been hung on the back of the door into your room. You tug your bowtie into place and nod at your reflection. 

The connecting door to the suite remains closed. 

You go out into the hall, towards the elevator. The golden brocade of the wallpaper could be garish but somehow it works. 

You wait for the elevator. There's something heavy in the inner left side of your jacket. It's a handgun, silencer. There's a noise in the hall and you quickly look up, looking for a flash of purple or black or dark blue pinstripes.

The elevator pings. You step inside.

It takes you down to another well-appointed hall that spills out onto the gaming floor. Your mouth sets in a firm line. Your eyes scan the room, touching on the faces, remembering them for later.

"Sir, are you ready?" A floor steward has appeared at your elbow. You glance and him and smile charmingly.

"Of course." 

He leads you into the back room, to the high stakes VIP table. A waiter appears. You order a gin martini, twist of lemon. 

The tables fill, but you're watching the door, oblivious, waiting for the entrance that never comes.

"Gentlemen, ladies," the dealer says with a discreet clearing of his throat. 

Your fingers dig in your pocket, but not for your gun. 

"Minimum bet--" His words are lost in the roaring of your ears. You shuffle your chips, refusing to look up. You flip one over. You study the font.

You look up at the man across from you at the table.

He smiles. Adjusts his slim silk tie. Accepts the cards.


End file.
